Wait until next year

Snow. What could be more apt as Christmas approaches?

And yet it is somewhat disconcerting. Perhaps because we had such a mild autumn, so such a cold snap is a shock. 

But I think it is disconcerting more because snow at this time of year is rare. I’ve not experienced a White Christmas in my lifetime; that as much as the visual language of Christmas has snow at its centre, my memories of Christmas don’t. 

However, it provides a good excuse for staying indoors, which is no bad thing at this time of year. 

The tree is up. Christmas is on its way.

Somebody has decorated my desk at work. Well, they have attached a length of tinsel to my divider with a bulldog clip. 

It feels like an intrusion. I’m tempted to call up HR, pretend I’m a member of an obscure religious sect who is deeply offended by Christmas tat and to explain that only a swift compensation payout will resolve the matter. I’m not sure I’d get away with that though.

And I do appreciate the half-hearted nature of it. It is better than proper office decorations. As much as I can admire people who manage to get away with mucking about for hours with baubles and fairy lights on work time, it all still feels a little too much like Organised Fun, which is, of course, the worst kind of fun.

There’s a certain honesty in my bulldog-clipped tinsel. It suits me.

I pass through a shopping centre, one of the fancy, new ones. 

The Christmas tree isn’t a tree at all, more an intricate construction of scaffolding and lights. It dominates, not just through its size but by the way it multiplies itself throughout the space as it reflects off the various shiny surfaces that surround it. 

It doesn’t feel that festive though, more a totem to the commerce of Christmas, a place to worship the almighty coin, to pay your respects to finance. It is impressive, but more than a little unnerving. 

I don’t particularly feel like Christmas shopping. I keep walking. 

“The rebuilt and widened Watling Street is lined by slabs of dead mutton, but it leads to a spectacular view of St Paul’s. It points at the heart of the building, unguarded by any façade.”

Nairn’s London, Ian Nairn, 1966.